


Last Man Standing

by MsBarrows



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Drinking Games, Excessive Drinking, Gen, Hangover, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 07:17:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1679585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsBarrows/pseuds/MsBarrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A pair of prompts covering a heavy night of drinking in Varric's suite at the Hanged Man, and the morning after. Originally published in my "In The Maker's Light" ficlet collection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Last Man Standing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts), [autumnesquirrel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumnesquirrel/gifts).



It started, as so many of their worst ideas did, with a bet. A casual challenge flung out by Isabela, wondering if any of them had the capacity to drink Fenris under the table.

“You can try,” Fenris said, a slight smirk twisting his lips in a way that said he didn’t believe any of them capable of it.

There were drinks after that; rather a lot of them. Easily three times what they usually drank, when gathered together here in Varric’s suite.

Carver was the first to succumb, rather to everyone’s surprise – everyone’s but Hawke, that is – collapsing slowly forward onto the table following a rather liquid belch.

“He never could hold his drink,” Hawke said, with the fondness he never showed when Carver was awake. He hauled his brother away from the table, seeing him laid out on a pallet on the floor by the wall, out of the way and safely rolled over onto his side, before the contest resumed.

The next to pass out was Merrill, though it took rather more alcohol than any of them would have guessed, given her tiny frame. But she went round after round, drinking her shot and getting progressively more silly, until between one breath and the next she fell asleep, slumping over sideways against Varric’s shoulder and making tiny little snoring sounds. Varric carried her off and tucked her into his bed himself, making sure a basin was handy before returning to the table.

The bottle went round and round again, then another one started around once it was emptied, the remaining contestants – Hawke, Isabela, Sebastian, Aveline, and Varric – all taking a shot each time Fenris took one, and eyeing each other as they waited to see who would succumb next.

Varric eventually turned rather green, and declared himself finished. He sat back and watched as the bottle continued circling the table, everyone drinking with a slightly grim expression now, except Fenris, who looked amused, and Sebastian, who had the same slight smile on his lips that he usually did.

It was Hawke that gave up next, the giant of a man finally having imbibed more alcohol than he could tolerate. He raced from the room, and they heard the sound of retching from the hall.

Varric grimaced. “Corff and Norah aren’t going to like that.”

The others grunted. Isabela suddenly rose to her feet, her dark skin going pale. “I think I’d better retire to my own rooms for the night,” she announced, and hurriedly stumbled off.

When they turned to Sebastian after she’d left, it was to find that the man had passed out. Varric sighed, and dragged him away from the table, grinning as he bedded the archer down on the same pallet as Carver.

“Don’t they look sweet together,” he said, after draping their arms over each other’s waist, and turned back to the table to find that the remaining drinkers – Aveline and Fenris – weren’t paying him the least attention, instead sitting there passing the bottle back and forth, pouring for each other and knocking back drinks as fast as they could. They finished the current bottle, and sat staring at each other as unblinkingly as cats while Varric hurriedly ordered and opened another.

He resumed his seat, watching the two drink. A faint sweat had broken out on Aveline’s face. Fenris’ hands were shaking now, and his movements slowed just the slightest bit as he lifted each glass.

Halfway through the bottle, Fenris suddenly covered the mouth of his glass with his hand. “Enough,” he rasped, and took the bottle from Aveline’s hand. He started to pour her another shot, then she suddenly shook her head, her pale complexion going noticeably green – an odd effect, with freckles.

“No,” she croaked out.

Fenris smiled again; another smirk of amusement. “A tie then,” he said gravely, before setting down the bottle with exquisite care.

Aveline rose shakily to her feet, lifting her sword and shield from where they hung on the back of her chair. “I should get back to the barracks,” she said, and walked away, her steps only wavering slightly.

Varric grinned, and shook his head. “Impressive,” he said.

There was no answer from Fenris; the elf had slid under the table, and was curled up on the floor, fast asleep.


	2. The Morning After

When a runner came to the clinic to tell Anders that he was urgently needed at the Hanged Man – that Hawke and Varric and the others were sick – he turned pale, filled a sack with poultices and bandages and an assortment of simples, and _ran_ all the way there.

“Where are they?” he demanded of Corff after bursting into the main room, looking frantically around.

“Upstairs,” Corff said, gesturing with the tankard he was wiping clean in the general direction of Varric’s suite. “Watch your feet, it’s a real mess up there,” he called after Anders as the mage turned and hurried away.

Going up the stairs, Anders got the first hint of what Corff meant; the stench of vomit hung in the air, sour and sickening. He reached the top to find Norah standing there, a vinegar-soaked rag tied over her mouth and nose, supervising two young similarly-attired young servant girls as they mopped up the floor, endeavouring to clean it. Anders paled, and hurried on into Varric’s suite.

His first impression was of bodies sprawled everywhere – on the floor, under the table, on Varric’s bed – and for a moment he feared he’d been too late. Hawke was sprawled on the floor closest to the door, seemingly having collapsed there after having crawled back in the door. Judging by the state of his clothes and hair, he was the source of much of the vomit out in the hall. Fenris was sprawled on his stomach under the table, legs entangled with two of the chairs, Varric stretched out on his back on top of it. Merrill was in Varric’s bed – half out of it, really, her arms and head hanging over the side.

And then his eyes and nose reported several salient details to him; the plethora of empty bottle and shot glasses scattered on and around the table. That everyone was breathing – some even snoring – and the strong fumes of alcohol mixed in with the odour of vomit. He cursed, then dropped to one knee beside Hawke and carefully checked him, touching fingertips carefully to forehead, cheek, and the pulse point in his neck.

He rose to his feet with a curse, tempted to kick the man. Not dying or ill, just _drunk_. All of them passed out, stinking, stupidly drunk.

“Not so loud,” Varric rasped, and levered himself upright, turning to sit with his legs dangling off the edge of the table. He clasped his hands to either side of his head, as if endeavouring to hold it together, and grimaced. “Ow… remind me never to do _that_ again,” he said, then looked blearily at Anders. “I don’t suppose you have anything in that bag that’s good for headache? Only it feels like half the miners in Orzammar are hammering away in my skull.”

Anders just glared at him for a moment, then stalked over to the door and leaned out of it for a moment. “Norah, a kettle of hot water please,” he asked, managing to keep the anger out of his voice, then stalked over to the table, and began digging in the bag for the supplies he’d need. “What happened?” he asked Varric sharply.

Varric told the story of the bet they’d had the night before. He even managed to make it sound amusing; amusing enough to have put Anders in a more amenable mood by the time the hot water arrived. Anders crumbled leaves and some strips of bark into the water, then stood waiting while it steeped, looking around the room, seeing who was and wasn’t there. “I’d better go check on Isabela,” he said, concerned. “You can die from too much drink, you know… it’s a poison.”

“No need,” a voice said from the door. Isabela was standing there, in a pose that was a mockery of her usual casual provocativeness; she was leaning heavily enough against the door frame to make it clear she wasn’t feeling at her best at the moment either. Though at least she was on her feet and dressed in clean clothes, unlike pretty much everyone else in the vicinity save Anders himself. She peered around the room, and wrinkled her nose at the state of it.

Anders snorted, then began pouring out servings of the medicinal tea he’d brewed. “Help me to get at least one mug of this down everyone’s throats,” he commanded her and Varric.

“Oooh, dibs on Fenris,” Isabela said, and hurried over to claim a mug, before going down on one knee to bend down under the table and see to Fenris’ care.

Varric claimed two mugs. He sipped cautiously from one himself, with a grimace for its bitter taste, then he slid down off the table and headed over to wake Merrill and coax her into drinking from the other mug. Anders took a mug over to Hawke, wrestling the big man up into a sitting position against the wall. Hawke woke just enough to be unhelpful at first, then sputtered and gagged and woke up fully once Anders tipped the first sip of tea into his mouth.

“Maker! My _head!_ ” he exclaimed, and tried to fend off the mug.

“Drink it, Hawke – it’ll make you feel better,” Anders explained patiently.

“Oh. Why didn’t you just say so,” Hawke mumbled, plucked the cup from his hand, and drank it back in one large gulp. He coughed, and turned greener for a moment, then gasped for breath a few times. “Better make it two,” he croaked. Anders reclaimed the mug and carried it back to the table to refill.

Curses in Tevine were coming from under the table, as well as the sound of Isabela whispering soothingly to the elf. Anders smiled slightly as he looked around, seeing Varric and Merrill sitting together on the edge of Varric’s bed, Merrill snuggled up against Varric’s side as he held a mug to her lips, his own mug held wedged between his knees.

Hawke was looking rather better – or at least, more alert – once he’d downed the second mug. “Hey! Varric! Who won?” he called out hoarsely.

“It was a tie,” Varric called back.

“Between?”

“Between Fenris and I,” said Aveline, stepping in the door.

Anders and Hawke looked up at her, eyes widening slightly. She looked exactly like her normal self, showing not the least sign of having drunk heavily the night before. Recently bathed, and fresh as a daisy in spotless armour.

“How do you manage to look so fresh and… and… and _sober_ ,” Hawke asked, blinking blearily up at her.

She glanced down at him, wrinkling her nose as she took in his filthy state. “Plenty of water before bed and a cold bath as soon as I woke up,” she told him, then walked a few steps further into the room, looking around.

“It must be more than that,” Fenris rasped as he crawled out underneath the table, scowling slightly as he looked Aveline over from head to toe.

“Yes, _I_ don’t look that good and I’ve had years of experience at drinking myself into oblivion. It must be some kind of magic,” Isabela said.

“ _Blood magic!_ ” Merrill carolled happily, waving one arm around and managing to knock her mug to the floor.

“Did anyone get some tea into Carver and chantry-boy yet?” Varric asked, looking tired.

“No,” Anders said.

Isabela walked over and stood looking down at the two. “Awww… do we have to wake them? They look so sweet together,” she cooed.

Everyone of course had to go take a look at them then. And they did look rather sweet, even Anders had to admit, Carver all curled up in a ball, his face mashed against Sebastian’s shoulder, the other man’s arms wrapped almost protectively around him, his aquiline nose buried in Carver’s hair.

“It would be a shame to wake them,” Varric said thoughtfully after a moment.

“Yes. Much better to just leave them like that,” Hawke agreed. “Dibs on being first to tease Carver once they wake up.”

“If you’re going to hang around here waiting for that, you need to _bathe_ ,” Varric told him.

“Fine. Order a tub. I can be the side show,” Hawke said agreeably.

Varric rolled his eyes. “Right. Isabela, why don’t you take Merrill to your room for a little while?”

“And miss the show? I think not,” Isabela said, seating herself in a chair in a way that made it clear she had no intention of leaving. “Anyway, I haven’t had my medicine yet,” she added, and began picking up and peering at bottles, looking for one with something left in it.

“The tea is in the kettle, Isabela,” Anders pointed out.

“I prefer some hair of the dog that bit me,” Isabela said with a sniff, and then crowed as she finally found a bottle that was only half-empty. “So… what shall we do while waiting for the sleeping beauties to awake? Other than watching Hawke at his ablutions, which I’m sure will be highly educational in its own right.”

“Something that doesn’t involve any further bets,” Fenris said, taking a seat beside her, and taking the bottle away from her to take a swig himself before passing it back.

“Not even bets about their reaction when they wake up?” Isabela asked, pouting.

“Well… maybe that,” Fenris agreed.


End file.
